


In Amber Light

by Umbrella_ella



Series: It's Easier to Say It to the Dark [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Desk Sex, F/M, My First Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:37:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2101113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/pseuds/Umbrella_ella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Melinda tries to change Phil's mind about a mission, but gets more than she bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Amber Light

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written smut, and I hope it reads well-- tell me what you thought!

Melinda May is a patient person, and so she waits. It’s three in the morning, she knows, and she’s perfectly aware of the fact that she’s waiting in Phil’s office, with only the desk lamp illuminating the center of the room. Beyond that, the room is too big for the limited ring of light that the cheap lamp casts, but Melinda doesn’t care to explore. Instead she observes. There are maps on the far left wall, pins here and there, the red pins standing out, even in the dark, and there, on the right wall, is a plaque that denotes S.H.I.E.L.D.’s motto, and an etching of the eagle.

In the amber light scattered across the office, it makes it look like the emblem look ominous, so Melinda shifts her attention to the wall behind Phil’s desk. The high backed chair is not something Phil is comfortable with— she’s watched him squirm for a moment before settling into a comfortable position countless times, and Melinda thinks that maybe she should get him a new chair. Besides, it blocks his favorite Captain America poster. She smiles a bit at that.

She hears him before she sees him— his footfalls are heavy and fast, like he’s running, and she watches the door burst open, before he enters.

“Melinda.” He doesn’t say anything more than that, but judging by the way his breaths are coming in short, sputtering gasps, she doubts he can say more.

“You’re up late. Early. You’re usually not up at three.”

Phil slams the miniature refrigerator’s door, a bottle of water in his hand, and he tips it back, and Melinda watches the way his throat works beneath the sheen of sweat for a moment, the way his tongue darts out to catch a droplet of water before going back to the fridge. The grey tee he wears is dark with sweat, and the basketball shorts clings to the backs of his thighs. The back of his neck is glistening with sweat and Melinda watches as he swipes it away with his free hand.

“Couldn’t sleep. Besides, you’re one to talk. Want one?” he asks, his voice craggy and raw, his shoulders dropping a bit as he relaxes.

“No. I want to talk to you.”

Phil sits in the chair, clearly uncomfortable.

“About?”

“The mission on Tuesday. It’s not… Phil, it’s not sound.”

Phil’s eyes darken for a moment in the amber light, his shoulders tense, and his chest tightens, and Melinda notices that his demeanor shifts.

“How so, Agent May?” _They were back to titles._

Melinda sighs and shifts— suddenly uncomfortable. Her sleepwear is too warm and the office is hotter than she expected.

“You shouldn’t be going on that mission. Let me go; I can go with Tripp— in and out, it’s as easy as that.”

“And why am I any less qualified than you? It’s a quick weapons depot reclaim, that’s all. If we needed you there, I would have set you up in the first place.” His voice is low, dangerous, and Melinda doesn’t want to press him, but she sees the way his eyes droop, the way his shoulders are stooped.

“You need to rest, Phil. You’ve been going nonstop since… since we got here.” Melinda insists, but it’s already a fight she’s not going to win.

“I don’t need anything— I don’t need advice, not from you, not from anyone, and I’d appreciate if you would s _top._ ” His words are bitter and harsh, and Melinda makes her decision.

‘Goodnight, _Director._ ” Even to her, the words sound out of place, heavy on her tongue and she feels the word fill her mouth unnaturally, like a ball of cotton, and she forces it out. He had always been Phil, or Coulson, but mostly _just Phil._

She stands, half-hoping he’ll stop her, half-hoping he won’t, but when he stares at her, his eyes boring into her, she abandons the hope that he might ask her to stay. Melinda May is a patient person, but she does not stay where she is wanted. Turning to the door, the handle is cool beneath her palm, and she turns it, hearing the familiar click of the latch. His hand stops the door from opening and she pauses.

His breath is hot on the back of her neck, and she can feel her resolve slipping.

She turns to face him, and he is so close, she can see the pain in his eyes. His eyes are blue, usually, but tonight, in the low glow of the dim light, they are grey. She watches as his chest rises and falls, and he is so close, she can count his individual eyelashes— he is pressed close, and his hand is still on the door above her.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, and she can hear the ache in his sigh, and she feel his breath on her cheek, “I’m so sorry. I don’t— I need…”

Melinda swallows. The way his face sits, the way his jaw clenches as he tries to mull over what he needs to say, the way his mouth moves, trying to say what he cannot, makes her wonder what it would be like to kiss him.

She wonders if his lips are soft.

“You need…?” she prompts, and she is very aware of how small she feels, of how her voice is less forceful than she meant it to be, of how the words slip from her lips so easily, and she wonders why her heart is pounding so hard. Her hands are flat against the door, and the wood is cool against her back, and Phil is so, _so close,_ and she wonders if her fingertips would blister if she ran her hand against his arm.

He doesn’t answer for a long time— instead, he stares, and she watches carefully as he seems to consider her, and the haze of anger and frustration seems to have left him, even as his eyes explore her. He does it subconsciously, she thinks later, but here, now, Melinda May is perfectly aware of the way his tongue sweeps across his bottom lip, moisture clinging to the pink flesh, and she wonders if his skin tastes like sweat.

She doesn’t get the chance to wonder much more. His lips are on her, smooth and demanding and full and all thoughts leave her. His hands are scorching, burning and she wants _more._ She feels him groan against her, and she’s not entirely certain when he closed the gap between them, but he is there and he fits against her perfectly and she can feel him there, solid, reassuring, and demanding all she wants to give. Her lips move against hers, and his teeth scrape her lips clumsily, but she doesn’t mind. His hands are on her, and she can taste him, but she wants to taste all of him.

Melinda presses her tongue to his lips and she can feel his lips part, and she tastes the tang of sweat as her fingers curl into his hair. He is against her, and she feel his desire pressing into her, and his skin is hot to the touch. She feels him shudder as she explores his mouth, his taste, and she smiles against his lips as he moans, the sound reverberating in his chest, and she feels it beneath her hands. The sweat she had admired so keenly earlier is sticky to the touch, and her fingers slip across the taut muscles of his arms, itching to explore. Phil breaks away from her, his breath ragged and gasping, his forehead resting against her shoulder, and she takes the opportunity to explore the muscles that ripple beneath his tee, her nails scraping across the fabric.

“This… has to… go.” Melinda is a little surprised at how out of breath she is, but she tugs at the thin cotton of his tee until he forces it above his head, tossing it somewhere. The expanse of his chest is broad and muscles, dark, wiry hair covering his upper torso, and she traces the scar she knows so well reverently, carefully, mapping it out on his skin, memorizing it. It is hard, knotted flesh to the touch and her lips tell her no different, but she presses her lips, soft from Phil’s kisses, against the flesh of the scar, pink and raised, and she can hear his breath stutter to a stop and she dips her hand low, where his skin meets the top of his shorts and his stomach twitches beneath her touch.

His shorts are tented and she hears him gasp as she palms him through his shorts. He is heavy and thick and she smiles a bit.

She looks up to see his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth puckered, breathing in and out, slowly, trying to maintain control. Her lips touch the scar lowest on his belly. _Tokyo._

The one on his left arm, above the crook of his elbow, puckered and pale. _Rio._

On his knee, the scar is thin, but deep, she knows, because she remembers the blood, she remembers cradling it in her lap so long ago. _Moscow._

Her fingers flutter across the scar, long and jagged and deep, on his back, the one she cannot see, and she remembers how the flesh sounded tearing, how he had cried out in pain, how close the knife had been to his lung. How red the blood had been as she pressed into his flesh. _Bahrain._

Phil senses the shift in her mood, and lifts her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“You saved me.”

Melinda lets her hand trace the muscles in his neck as her head drops to his chest.

“I know.”

Phil hesitates before he kisses her again, and this time, the kiss is slow, deep, and she remembers that he is here, _that he is now,_ and that he is okay. A sound, a hitch of her breath, is muffled by his lips as his fingertips trace her collarbone, and find the hollow of her throat. His lips leave hers, and all she knows now is that she _feels._ She can feel the way his tongue brushes the sheen of sweat that has pooled at her throat, the way his hands don’t stop moving, and she is _alive._

When he pulls away, it’s to lift the hem of her shirt, his hands inching up her torso, brushing her abdomen, his thumb dipping below the waist of her yoga pants, and he smiles that crooked, s _tupid_ smile, teasing her, and she growls in frustration, ripping the tank up and over her head before his grin can get any bigger. Her chest is heaving by the time his mouth meets her shoulder, nipping at her collarbone while his hands fumble with her bra clasp. Melinda feels him sigh appreciatively as her bra slides to the floor, and she is acutely aware of the way the knob of the door is digging into her back as he lowers his mouth to her pert breasts.

“Desk.”

It’s barely a mumble but he understands her, and he is there in a flash, sweeping the papers, pens, and whatever else off of the surface with a clatter, including the lamp, and she takes a moment to admire the way the shorts cling to his ass before she joins him. His hands lift her onto the desk, and he kisses her hard, and her hands card through his short hair, her nails scraping his scalp. His mouth drops to her left breast, his tongue darting out to sweep torturous circles around her stiff nipple, and Melinda’s head drops back, breathy gasps seeming to spur him on. His hand, the one that’s not swirling patterns on her back, is on her other breast, and her breath hitches as she feels his fingers close on her nipple.

She is ready for him.

The heat of them pressed together is heady and she is floating and Melinda May cannot breathe and she wants Phil— all of him, and all she can think about is how he would feel inside of her, and her fingers scramble for purchase on the waist of his shorts and his boxers, pulling them down in one swift motion, and watches as his erection, thick and heavy, bobs as he toes out of his shoes, kicking them away. Dimly, she hears them smack against the wall somewhere far away, and she pauses, watching as his tip weeps.

“Are you—?”

“Implant.” Melinda mutters before crushing her lips to his, lifting her hips from the desk as he tugs on her pants, pulling them down and off. The air is cool, and goose bumps erupt on her flesh. The heat of Phil’s erection presses against her underwear, and she has never been more frustrated. His fingers are nimble and expertly remove her panties, but not before he raises an eyebrow. They’re black and lacy and _sexy_ and Melinda is proud of the way his cock twitches as he slides them down her legs, letting them fall and pool on the floor.

There is nothing stopping them now.

“Are you sure, Melinda?” Phil asks, his voice serious, and his demeanor soft. The way he says her name, his drawn out ‘aaa’ tapering into a breath almost makes her come undone.

Melinda was never one to play coy, and she wasn’t about to start now, so she grabbed his cock, feeling the smooth skin beneath her palm and she smiles at the way his features twist into a look of utter desperation, at the way her name slips through his teeth, his breath stuttering and gasping.

Her lips brush his cheek and she can feel the scratch of his stubble on her cheek as she speaks.

“I’m sure.”

He grips her wrist tenderly, kissing her palm and keeping his eyes level with hers, and presses himself into her. Her sigh mingles with his as they bask in the heat of them combined, her hands pressed to his ass— it’s as muscular as she thought it would be— keeping them still for a moment before he shifts inside of her, and she is filled to the brim with him, with light, and he begins to move. Melinda May is in control— usually. Now is not one of those times. Phil’s face is screwed up, and he is concentrating for her, and she presses her eyes closed, mapping the skin of his shoulder with tongue and teeth and she matches his pace.

They go slow at first, and his gasps are muted against her lips, against her neck, and Melinda May is drowning in him, and all she knows is the way his lips part as they rock, parting and coming together, the slap of flesh on flesh her only relief to the building knot inside of her.

The tension in the air is broken only by his moans and her sighs, which soon turn to brief, clipped sentences, and then into broken half-names that neither of them can really say, but the sentiments are understood.

With one last push inside of her, her nails gliding across his back, he gasps her name, and a warmth fills her lower belly and she rides him out, reaching her climax with a strangled, muffled shout of his name, the end of a mantra.

They don’t separate immediately. Instead they wait for the heat between them to dissipate and his cock to go soft inside of her, and they are locked together, their lips trailing individual, nonsensical patterns across sweating flesh and Melinda feels Phil sigh against her.

“Maybe we should try a bed next time.”

 

 

 


End file.
